


Forget the Classics

by Raptor_Redemption



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Theatre, Crossdressing, Exploring Sexuality, First Dates, Gender Identity, M/M, Victor/Victoria AU, alcohol mention, gender euphoria
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26802298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raptor_Redemption/pseuds/Raptor_Redemption
Summary: Iggy Scientia is one of the hottest stage actors in modern theater, and patron of the arts Gladiolus Amicitia is enthralled after his first time experiencing Iggy's distinct performance. He needs more, and he gets it—much more than he expects.This time, it's Iggy who lifts a hand. "No question is unwelcome when it comes from a pure and genuine curiosity. But you said that this shop had churros to die for, and I'd much rather discuss matters of acting and gender over a warm dish of melted chocolate."
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 10
Kudos: 30





	Forget the Classics

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ScarlettArbuckle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettArbuckle/gifts).



> Thank you so much for entrusting this idea to me, Scarlett! Your art has always been inspiring to me, and I'm so grateful for the chats we've had, too! It was an honor to write for you <3

In the box seats reserved for Gladio and his younger sister alone, the Amicitia heir watches the performance unfold on the stage beneath him with feigned interest. Back straight and gaze ahead, it’s all he can do not to let his eyes slide shut with the dimming of the lights. Already he’s been in two meetings today—one a press conference—to address the city of Insomnia’s thriving local art scene. It is up to people like him to support the fine arts, is it not? Aren’t his father’s funds the sole reason for this very playhouse remaining open through its recent tribulations?

Yes, perhaps, though Gladio attributes the success of these shows full of modern flair more to progressive interest than his family’s old money. There is a political component, too, of course—packed theaters and sold-out shows bring revenue into the capital, and what else is his family good for?

Gladio hears the opening applause, the rustling excitement of the theater’s populace before the crowd silences and prepares itself for a brilliant opening, but his own reactions are robotic and nothing more. Insomnia and the few patrons of the local arts have long since given up the classic plays, pivotal works of art that line Gladio’s bookshelves and might have even been called “formative” to his upbringing.

This one is something new, something riskier, and Gladio knows nothing of what to expect.

It’s precisely why the woman who appears onstage beneath a lone spotlight takes his breath away so easily.

Something about her draws him in from her very first line, a siren call to the audience in a low but powerful voice. Her accent commands the room, and Gladio is no exception.

It’s the first time he’s found himself bestowing the rare gift of a standing ovation to a production such as this one, and his sister Iris stands, too. The top of her head barely meets his bicep, and from the corner of Gladio’s eye, he sees her glance up at him with confusion and mischief swirling amongst the twinkle in her eyes.

“Where are you going?” she calls when Gladio rushes from the balcony.

“To find her.”

He knows the playhouse and its forerunners well. Gladio rushes to find the house manager before the crowd dissipates into the theater’s main lobbies and hallways, making the place a nightmare of moving bodies where not a soul could be found.

“The lead,” Gladio says cryptically to Cor when he finds him at last. The manager lingers in the downstairs lobby, preparing to clear the space with the utmost efficiency.

“Hm?” Cor barely glances at Gladio. He’s not like most people in this city who will drop everything to acknowledge one of the area’s oldest and most well-established families. 

“The lead actress,” Gladio insists, his voice forced through gritted teeth. “Where can I meet with her?”

Still refusing to meet Gladio’s gaze, Cor keeps his eyes on the clipboard in front of him and merely lifts an eyebrow. “Try the back bar once the crowd’s died down. Dirty martini after every show. It’s a tradition.”

Gladio hates to think that he’ll have to wait even an hour to find her, but it’s best that he not try to approach her when so many other doting fans will be around. Gladiolus Amicitia is not used to being the one to disappear into a crowd, but he has a feeling that this woman won’t care who the hell he is and how much money his family siphons into the local arts. She was too perfect on stage, too competent and confident, not the type of woman to treat Gladio differently from any other member of the audience.

Hell, the  _ world  _ is her audience, or so Gladio thinks.

Once pedestrians have removed themselves from the building and only staff and VIPs remain, Gladio finds her exactly where Cor said she would be; just as he thought, there is no illumination of surprise on her features when Gladio approaches her. There’s no recognition, no flustered blush.

Instead, she turns her head toward him lazily from where she stands at the bar conversing with a fellow actor and a third person Gladio doesn’t recognize. Normally, this might bother Gladio—he recognizes everyone—but he’s entirely too focused on what she looks like up close.

By now, a few strands of her ash blonde hair have fallen from their hairspray hold to hang limply along her forehead. Her face, though angled and sharp, is softened by the heavy blush and bronzer that comes with most stage makeup. Her lips aren’t terribly full, but plumped with red lipstick and a shimmering gloss, Gladio could still imagine kissing them. His heart flutters in his chest when she lifts a single, delicately groomed eyebrow.

Right. He hasn’t said anything.

_ Stupid. _

“Gladio Amicitia.” He offers his hand, then smoothly brings the backs of her fingers to his lips when their grasps join.

“I know who you are.” The actress regards him with interest, her hooded eyes trained on him beneath mascara-laden eyelashes. In the other hand not occupied by Gladio’s forward but (hopefully) endearing gesture, she holds a martini glass daintily within a long, well-manicured grasp. Just as Cor said, the clear liquor is clouded with olive juice, and a stick with at least three more olives on it protrudes from the glass. What looks to be a nearly perfect lipstick stain stamps the glass’s rim. “Did you enjoy the show, Mr. Amicitia?”

Gladio’s brown skin pales, and he scratches twice at his beard—a nervous habit. “Please,” he says. “Call me Gladio. And yes, your performance was outstanding, ah—?” He catches himself at the peak of embarrassment and chides himself for dismissing the production prior to his attendance. He realizes that he’s committed the greatest atrocity at all.

He doesn’t even know her name despite its presence on hundreds of programs littered throughout this theater.

“Iggy, darling,” she says. “Iggy Scientia.” Then, she looks to one of her castmates and laughs. “And here I thought this lead would put me in the bigwigs’ sights.” As she speaks, though, one corner of her lips quirks up into a grin that she flashes at Gladio.  _ No harm done _ , the grin says. “What’s your drink,  _ Gladio _ ?”

Gladio turns to the bartender and nods a friendly greeting. “Whiskey, please. Double. Neat.”

“Straightforward. A good quality in a man.” Iggy’s observation is casual, but its weight isn’t lost on Gladio. He takes an extra moment to let his eyes wander down Iggy’s frame. The more extravagant pieces of her wardrobe have been long since abandoned, but she’s comfortable enough now in a red chiffon dress-shirt with three-quarter sleeves, her well-fitted vest ending with a decorative, ruffled tailcoat that only accentuates the delicate curves of her hips and ass.

“Yeah? I can barely see the vodka through all those olives.”

Iggy chuckles. Her voice is low, indulgent, addicting. “Yes, well, maybe I deserve a touch of indulgence after a hard night’s work.”

“I’d never deny a lady any such thing,” Gladio says. He lifts his glass and offers a toast. “To Iggy, the rest of her cast and crew, and another full-house weekend.”

Iggy and her friends lift their glasses, but Gladio barely sees the others—they only get in Iggy’s way. He watches the delicate twist of Iggy’s wrist, her delicate hands just as expressive as the rest of her, and chides himself when his eyes land on the small breasts hidden beneath her vest. She’s a tiny thing, shapely in her own way, but when Gladio peers at her over his glass he can’t keep his thoughts from the way that her powerful thighs carried her across the stage with such confidence.

“A moment?”

Gladio blinks, then realizes a beat too late that Iggy is asking for a moment with  _ him _ . Her hand brushes his elbow, and he follows her without question, completely enthralled.

She is coy with him, nearly cautious, but that’s all right. There’s a fire in her eyes that keeps him just as energized as her performance made him feel.

He’s not sure how long they talk, but the conversation is extensive enough that they find a booth. The seats are just as elegant as the remainder of the theater—a deep red leather covers the plush booth, and Gladio and Iggy lean comfortably against a polished oak table. With a chandelier lit dimly above them, the atmosphere isn’t unlike a date. Still, Iggy keeps her distance, even when her watchful eyes remain on him with a deep and questioning gaze.

“I’d like to see you again,” Iggy finally says, and Gladio thinks that he might be choking on his heart. “But I don’t suppose it’s too easy to acquire access to an Amicitia’s direct line.”

Gladio thinks he must have won the lottery. What does he have that has finally caught her interest? “Well, aren’t you a lucky one?”  _ No, Gladio,  _ you’re  _ the luckiest man alive right now. Don’t you ever forget it.  _ “Because I have a pen in my pocket and there’s a napkin right here, huh?” He picks the napkin up by its corner and is slightly distraught to see that it’s still damp from some previous drink.

Iggy laughs.

Gladio’s stomach flutters. “What?”

“You truly feel the need to write your number down on pen and paper.” It’s not a question, but an observation. “I appreciate the sentiment, Gladio.” Then, she holds her phone in one hand and easily pokes at the screen with her index finger. Before Gladio knows it, the device is in his huge, trembling grasp, and he enters his cell number in the appropriate location. Iggy has already input his name. It’s a simple matter, but Gladio’s heart thrums against him from the inside.

The vibration in his pocket startles him.

“Just me. Don’t worry. Text me sometime. Tell me when and where else you like to have your whiskey neat.”

Is Gladio being asked on a date? He fiddles with his pocket until he’s able to draw his phone out. There it is—the notification for Iggy’s text with a phone number attached.

Gladio’s gut twists again, and the front of his pants feels tight when this husky-voiced woman so gracefully tips the rest of her martini between her lips. He can’t keep his eyes from her throat when she swallows.

“Anything for you,” he says. Gladio doesn’t mean for it to sound so desperate, but he laughs the mistake away with a slight lift of his glass. Then, he downs the rest.

Once they’ve parted, Gladio spends the remainder of the evening and the following week wondering what it is about Iggy that has drawn him so strongly to her. He thinks about how she’s one of the only women who has ever come close to challenging his height, merely three inches shorter than him, but then curses himself when he can’t recall whether or not she was wearing heels. He remembers her hands—commanding and wide though still full of elegance. He dreams of her voice and the accent that filled it with so much character when she was two martinis in. Gladio wants to see more of her, wants to pick apart the differences from her appearance onstage and her demeanor outside the theater.

On Thursday evening, he gets the opportunity.

At Iggy’s insistence, Gladio has chosen the place for them to meet. It’s a humble spot, something far from the pomp and circumstance that typically attracts people with last names like “Amicitia”. The coffee-shop-bookstore combo isn’t quite a hole in the wall, but it’s damned close. If asked, Gladio wouldn’t be able to come close to counting the hours he’s spent there. Hell, it’s this store that’s stocked his bookshelves full of the most classic plays and epics and poetry compilations and—

“Good to see you again, Gladio.”

Instantly, Gladio knows the voice, but the disconnect is strong enough that he can’t hide the shock that lengthens his face and crawls into his eyes.

The Iggy who stands before him is entirely different from the Iggy who handed her phone to Gladio after the most stunning performance Gladio has seen in the past year. This Iggy isn’t wearing makeup, and her hair frames a strong brow and cheekbones much differently than the form it had taken with half a can of hairspray onstage.

Iggy’s attire isn’t much different, but the ruffles are gone, and clothes hang differently than they did on the night of the production. Iggy’s hips seem less wide now, while shoulders have broadened. Without makeup, her face is striking, but it’s not—

“I expect you’re surprised.”

Gladio sees the want in Iggy’s eyes, the pleading gaze that reeks of unspoken concern.

“No,” Gladio says, holding up a hand. “Don’t. It’s—it’s okay.” He doesn’t deny his surprise. Gladio isn’t the kind of man who will lie to please a woman.

No, a man. Or? 

“Is it inappropriate to ask—”

This time, it’s Iggy who lifts a hand. “No question is unwelcome when it comes from a pure and genuine curiosity. But you said that this shop had churros to die for, and I’d much rather discuss matters of acting and gender over a warm dish of melted chocolate.”

Gladio smiles gratefully, then offers his hand. Iggy takes it and follows.

With delight, Gladio watches as Iggy absorbs the sights and sounds and smells of the little bookstore and coffee shop hybrid that Gladio has chosen for their first date.

Meeting?

Hangout?

Date.

Gladio is pretty sure it’s a date.

They order at the counter, and it’s not long before two plates of sweets and two massive mugs are delivered to their chosen spot. By now, Gladio has already pointed out a couple of books on the used book shelves—his favorite plays that he asks if Iggy has read, bright-eyed.

To Gladio’s delight, Iggy has read them all, even acted in one.

A few volumes occupy the table between them when Gladio begins, “So, Iggy.”

Iggy’s interruption is prompt. “Ignis. My name is Ignis.”

_ Ignis. Fire.  _ Gladio stops himself from spending too much time imagining how perfectly the name fits and instead dips his chin in a silent show of his appreciation.

“I have to ask, Ignis.” At last, the great Gladiolus Amicitia, patron of the Insomnian arts, asks the question that’s been on his mind for days. “What was it that made you want to speak privately with me? I can’t imagine you allow the rest of your fans the same privilege, and my name certainly did nothing to impress you.”

Ignis smiles, and Gladio is pleased to see that his grin is just as gorgeous without lipstick.

Gladio waits for whatever length of time can contain two thoughtful sips of lavender latte.

“I saw something,” Ignis says cryptically. “Something about you that perhaps you haven’t even seen yourself.”

Unable to stop himself, Gladio laughs. The sound isn’t one that’s unkind or even skeptical; when Gladio swipes a single finger along the edge of his eye, he’s wondering how unsexy it is to be laughing so heartily at  _ himself _ .

Once again needing no prompt, Iggy—no,  _ Ignis _ —smiles and takes a careful bite of his pastry. A crumb remains on his mouth, and Gladio interrupts any discomfort brought about by his chuckled self-deprecation by lifting a thumb to wipe the crumb from the corner of Ignis’s lip. “I want to know what you see,” Gladio says. “But there’s something I need to ask, first.”

Ignis smiles, something that Gladio barely makes out over the broad rim of the coffee mug. Still, it’s there, and it’s beautiful. The piercing green eyes that accompany Ignis’s smile have more knowledge buried within them than Gladio is comfortable accepting. That gaze tells Gladio that this isn’t the first time Ignis has been asked the same question, and Gladio’s stomach sinks.

He doesn’t want to be like everyone else.

Thankfully, Ignis catches on, and Gladio doesn’t have to be the same. “Yes,” Ignis says. “I am quite comfortable in my masculinity, and yes, you may refer to me as ‘he’ and ‘him’ and all manner thereof. The stage is performative, though I wouldn’t do such things if I didn’t find them to be a part of me.”

Gladio’s food and drink have gone untouched. He’s too enthralled with Ignis to think of anything else. “You’re incredible,” he lamely says at last. “Do you dress like this all the time, then, offstage?” As Gladio gestures at Ignis’s clothes, what he’s meaning to ask is,  _ Do you only wear women’s clothes and makeup on stage? _

“If you mean a suit and slacks, absolutely not. Believe it or not, I quite enjoy a t-shirt and a pair of cotton shorts when I’m lounging on my couch at night.” Then, Ignis laughs and reads Gladio’s mind once again. “I’ll wear makeup every now and again, but I mostly reserve it for the stage. It’s more powerful that way, don’t you think? And no, my women’s clothes remain in the dressing room. A personal decision.”

Ignis speaks so easily of all of this, and confidence rolls off of him in waves that splash at Gladio’s body and raise gooseflesh on his forearms. The actor’s back is straight, his shoulders open, and yet Ignis still crosses his legs with a delicacy reminiscent of  _ Iggy _ rather than Ignis. His gestures, so masculine and feminine at once, have Gladio eager to explore parts of himself he’s not cared to bare before.

“I see.” Finally, Gladio nibbles at one end of a churro without dipping it in chocolate first.

“You still want to know why I’ve given you my cell number?” Ignis laughs again, a breathy sound, and Gladio wonders if the man has x-ray vision or some form of psychic ability. How the hell does he know so much? How is he reading Gladio’s mind more quickly than Gladio can untangle his own blossoming sexuality? “Sure, you’ve asked the same questions that everyone has.”

Gladio knows this. Ignis’s answers were too rehearsed to indicate anything different.

“That doesn’t mean you’re the same as them.”

It’s this distinction that lifts Gladio’s chin and has him taking a hopeful, nervous sip of coffee that’s now lukewarm at best. “No?”

Ignis laughs. “Nowhere close.” He picks one of Gladio’s books up from the table and waves the paperback casually in the air. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a man try to woo me with his knowledge of  _ Romeo & Juliet _ ?”

Gladio is confused. He’s never mentioned that play, and the book that Ignis waves is a different title entirely.

“Not long. The past four dates,” Ignis answers. “Well, six, though two of them couldn’t get past the—” Ignis gestures down at his face, his body, himself. “The others thought their elementary education of plays would land them in my bed. They sought to experiment. They were confused. You know what you want.”

_ Do I?  _ Gladio wonders.

“And I like that, Gladio. I like that very much.” This is when Ignis leans across the table, and Gladio is sure that he’s about to be kissed. Instead, Ignis lifts his thumb—Gladio notices that the acrylic nails have been removed and only short, clean nails remain—to wipe a speck of sugar from the corner of Gladio’s mouth, mimicking Gladio’s earlier gesture.

Gladio’s blood buzzes hot beneath his skin. Is it disappointment that he’s feeling?

For the first time, he matches Ignis’s confidence and makes a move of his own, closing the distance between them and kissing Ignis’s cheek. “I like you, too, Ignis,” he whispers. “And I promise never to woo you with  _ Romeo & Juliet _ .”

“I suppose I’ll have to ask just how you’ll woo me, then?”

Gladio leans back in his chair, sips his coffee, and grins, barely keeping the butterflies in his gut from bursting through his lips. “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a terribly long time since I've updated with any fic, but not once have I stopped thinking about Gladnis. Thank you to those who have stuck around with me to chat on Discord even during my less active months in fandom.
> 
> Also, thank _you_ for reading, and feel free to leave comments and kudos! I'd love to know what you think, as this concept was something super special for me to write.
> 
> Follow me on Twitter @raptor_redeem for more Gladnis goodies and gender feels.


End file.
